SN Chapter 11

Rosaline had returned alive, defying every expectation. Perhaps it was just the friction of shared misery—the sort that grows when you’ve scraped the same pot for too long—but even those who despised her found the news… not entirely unwelcome.

And then came the promotion. Senior knight appointment. Her enemies multiplied without a sound.

They considered her wholly insufficient to fill the seats of those who had given their lives to protect the prince. Moreover, she hadn't shown her face at the memorial service—content to sit buried on her estate—and then slipped quietly out only for the investiture ceremony. How anyone could be so calculating about it was beyond comprehension. Not everyone, but most of the Order carried some portion of that feeling.

The senior knights resented a knight of insufficient qualification rolling in uninvited. The junior knights burned with the sense of having their places stolen. The trainee knights didn't doubt for a moment that Rosaline's current rank had been purchased with family name and power.

The countless eyes that followed Rosaline were born of all this. Tenacious, clinging—they refused to leave her alone. More intense, if anything, than the eyes of ardent admiration.

Raymond swept the room with a hard, sharpened look. The junior knights who caught his gaze scattered hurriedly. He sighed. Not a word of congratulation for someone who had returned from the dead—only whispering behind her back. They were young elites who were supposed to know which end of a blade to hold, and therefore wound tight in pride and stubbornness, which made them exhausting in a particular way. What was the point of studying the chivalric code day after day and committing every line of it to memory, if it all poured away somewhere meaningless in the end?

"Rosaline."

"Yeah."

"There's something I should probably tell you..."

"Tell me."

"Actually... you... friends... you've only got me...?"

She raised one eyebrow and looked up at him. Her expression said quite plainly: that's unexpected.

"I thought I had a lot of friends."

Kallix. The maids. Raymond. Even the knight captain. Everyone she met—it was plain as anything that they liked Rosaline. Strange, really. When she looked at the person called Rosaline in the mirror, the abundant black hair held a rich, glossy sheen, and the eyes were leaf-green and pretty. Being lean was something of a flaw, but she was tall with an excellent frame, and the muscle quality was good—strong and striking. Humans were said to be greatly swayed by external appearance. Apparently, that wasn't everything.

Raymond pressed a hand over his heart at that clear-eyed expression. It ached too much. It felt as though he had snatched away, whole, every imaginary friend who should have been beside Rosaline. He felt like a terrible person. He dabbed at the tears that had slipped out with his sleeve.

"Don’t worry, Rosaline. With this big brother, you've a hundred-man force in a single pair of boots."

He scrubbed his head vigorously against her black hair. Her scalp pulled and it hurt a little. As the sun began to sink below the horizon, the two went companionably to the cafeteria attached to the dormitory. Almost enough to make one forget the many eyes watching—the meal was delicious.

When she returned to her room, she would get out the letter paper first. Rosaline had written regularly to her younger brother. The castle was white. Raymond had come to meet her. She had met the knight captain. Being stared at by people was unpleasant, but she had neither struck nor killed any of them. She was pretty but apparently had few friends. The meal was delicious. Ester's nights and Tigard's nights alike sparkled with moonlight and starlight.

But Rosaline could not write to the end. She fell asleep from the exhaustion of a long journey, face-down at the desk just as she was, and slept deeply until morning. Rosaline had appeared in her dream, or something like it. 'Many people like you—and many people dislike you, too,' she had told her, in more fluent human language than when they had first met. Rosaline had smiled that smile and said, 'That's just how it is.'

Rosaline opened her eyes. Diligent footsteps moved in the corridor. Looking at the sky, it was the color of pre-dawn edging toward morning. Today was the day of the White Night Order's investiture ceremony. She rose from the desk and checked the mirror. Ink that had seeped from the letter paper had left several characters printed on her cheek.

She washed, changed into her uniform, and tied her hair—and someone knocked at the door as if they had been waiting. Rosaline sharpened her senses and looked beyond the door. It was Raymond, her one-man-army of a friend. She smiled openly and opened the door.

"Good morning, Rosaline."

"Good morning. Raymond."

Having lost her memories and left even the family and home she could lean on behind—he had thought she would be suffering greatly, but she looked as if she had slept soundly, making his worry seem beside the point altogether. White skin so smooth it seemed to ask to be touched. Raymond smiled without meaning to. Had she always been this adaptable? The girl had died and come back, and it seemed she had found some peace of mind.

He guided her way. She saw the broad altar where the investiture ceremony would take place. At the center of the circle drawn by white stone stood a laurel tree, and beside it an eagle statue. She could recall the human mythology Kallix had told her: Idelabvhim had sent a manifestation as a messenger between heaven and earth, and that messenger had been an eagle, and the Illavénian Empire had been founded centered on the laurel tree where that eagle had perched—and that was why every altar used for important Illavénian ceremonies held both a laurel tree and an eagle statue. Information she had only half-listened to at the time.

While she was gazing blankly at the altar, knights in white uniforms gathered one by one. Without anyone issuing orders, they began to fall into line. This too she had learned from Kallix. Trainee knights at the far back. Junior knights in the middle. Senior knights at the front. Facing the senior knights from the opposite direction: the vice-captain's aide, the vice-captain, and the deputy vice-captain. The center of the altar would belong to the Second Prince, who would preside over the ceremony; the knight captain would stand beside him to guard.

Since Rosaline had not yet been formally appointed, she lined up with the junior knights. The unfriendly gazes still orbited around her. Where had the senior knights gone? The formation held only junior and trainee knights. A long time passed like that.

Buuuuu—

A sound that set the air vibrating spread outward, and white flags bearing intertwined clusters of light were raised one after another. Knights snapped thak, thak into straight-backed attention. From far away at the white palace, the senior knights were walking in step. At the center, flanked left and right by the formation, was a man dressed in white—like the knights, but not in a knight's uniform. An elaborate ceremonial robe of the kind worn in temples. He wore his long hair hanging loose, swaying gently with each step, and walked slowly toward the altar. Silver hair that glowed with a quiet luminescence, as though it held moonlight inside it.

For a moment, Rosaline thought she and he had made eye contact. Before she even knew who he was. The instant she saw those ocean-blue pupils, something she had no words for struck her—emotion and confusion at once, washing over her. Her heart struck loud and hard against her chest.

'What is this? What is this?' Poison? No—she was in human form, but unlike other organisms, poison couldn't reach her. A side effect of breaking the taboo of absorbing a living thing? No—if that were the cause, she would have felt the anomaly long before now. Rosaline breathed in quick, shallow pulls and pressed her right hand hard over her chest—and at about that moment, every knight in the formation performed the same gesture. The knights' salute. Rosaline slipped into their current by pure coincidence.

The senior knights escorted the central man to the altar, then turned naturally and came to stand before her. Rosaline gazed at him as he appeared in fragments over the shoulder of the senior knight standing in front.

She had heard about him. The only prince in the current Illavénian imperial family who carried silver hair. The Laurel of the Snowfield. Second Prince Rikardis.

He was the master of the white nights she had wanted to protect.

'His Highness the Second Prince's birth mother, Empress Millya, comes from a frontier viscountcy family. Moreover, Empress Millya's own mother was a commoner. And so there are many who make an issue of His Highness's origins. Saying he is of low birth. That commoner blood runs in him. Yet even saying all of that, not one of them can say a word in front of His Highness. Why do you think that is, Sister?'

'Because he's a prince?'

'That's part of it. The biggest reason is his holy power. And His Highness's appearance."

'...Appearance?'

'He possesses looks that both men and women revere. And then there is pure white—the color that symbolizes Idelabvhim. His Highness's dazzling silver hair calls it all to mind. And on top of that, holy power that rivals any emperor in recorded history. Do you begin to see it? In a country that serves the god of light and wields holy power—how do you think His Highness appears to those around him?'

At the time she had simply registered it and moved on. But now Rosaline could feel the meaning of those words with particular keenness. Even to her eyes, which had not yet mastered all human aesthetics, the Second Prince was beautiful to the point of bewilderment. Deep, vivid sea-blue pupils. A straight, clean nose. A soft mouth and skin like a porcelain doll—transparent, white—and a body robustly trained to a standard that held up without fault even measured against the knights.

Rikardis's snow-white clothes and hair were shining brilliantly. The kind of strange scene in which even the sunlight seemed to gather beside him specifically, as though it had somewhere to be.

Kallix. Raymond. The count's household staff. The White Night Order members. Rosaline had seen a not-insignificant number of men. But beauty this overwhelming—this raw, this insistent at the level beneath conscious thought—it was the first time. Was that the reason? Was her heart pounding like this because his appearance was so striking? It felt slightly strange, but since she could not gauge any other cause, she accepted it.